What the Darkness Means

Before becoming Someone’s Mother™, I was a night person. To the point of actually preferring the (seldom scheduled) second shift over the first. That’s when I felt like I came alive. I figured we had it all wrong here in l’ammerica, that we would do better to adopt the tradition of much of the world—afternoon naps, to get ready for fabulously long evenings. Even as a kid, I’d nap in the early evening to be able to stay up for the Creature Feature; sunsets flipped my “energizer bunny” switch.

And now? I’ve learned to savor the mornings. The quiet time before the dawn. When the house is silent, and even the cats aren’t interested in running around. Ahhh….silence. These mornings seem like the only time I have to myself, time to breathe, time in which my thoughts/visions can organize themselves, or disappear entirely into the void. It’s calm, peaceful in the early morning. It feels almost as if time stops, or slows down at least. The dark of the morning before dawn has its own special energy that I never really appreciated until parenthood. Never appreciated when I felt the normal rules of time didn’t apply to me. Now I luxuriate in the darkness of morning; treasure the quiet beginning of each new day. I’m still a night person. I don’t think that will ever change—that rhythm still feels most “natural” to me. But these mornings? Like crema on espresso.

Greetings From the Rust Belt! (cross-posted at Feministe)

‘Ssa benerica! (s’abbenedica, s’abbinirica, assabenedica….it’s a blessing). I’ve been here before on three occasions. I run my mouth on the regular in the comments section. Still trying to get the hang of blogging (where does everyone find the time?). You can read my previous introductions here at my new blog. Who is La Lubu?

mother, daughter, granddaughter, great-granddaughter, niece. only child. curse in 2 languages. background is meridionale, terrona, pagana, tho’ i am mmericana. my people come from Sicily, up in the mountains where Hades captured Persephone. then they came to Ellis Island, Chicago, and points south…time doesn’t heal all wounds but music almost does…hyperbolic, hyperaware, hypersensitive, hyperactive…mind set to flowing all directions simultaneously, winding over and under and behind and through like Styx…snap reflexes ‘cuz i’m still a survivor, still know where the exits are, still look for weapons & the defensive position, still picking up the pieces…journeyman wireman, 5th generation trade unionist, rustbelt consciousness, old-school labor activist in the vein of Eugene V. Debs (”while there is a lower class I am in it, while there is a criminal element I am of it, and while there is a soul in prison I am not free”). visit the grave of Mother Jones once a year. lean hard to the left like the good end of the radio dial and the low end of the guitar…inveterate bookworm, lover of words written and spoken. savor the expressive cadence of the unexpected and mostly unsaid. feel the undercurrents and invisible turbulence, look beneath the surface, revel in the exquisite passion of what irish soulman/road opener Van Morrison calls the “inarticulate speech of the heart”. like to blow the dust off buried treasure/buried truth…been driving up/down I-55 between Chicago & St. Louis since some of it was still Route 66. been cooking sugu before there was “italian seasoning”. carry home in my heart, not under my feet. stamina and resilience. raw nerves and sore muscles. low voice and full-throated howl…….this is La Lubu.

Any questions? Any requests? I’m honored to be here. I hope the moderators look after me well; I don’t have computer access during the day (most of the time).